


Welcome to Guam

by SylviaNightshade



Category: Lost
Genre: Angst and Feels, Characters off the island, Drunk Sex, General lost vagueness, Hurt/Comfort, Lost (TV)- Freeform, M/M, Missing plot scenarios, Reunions, after the finale, mentioned Richard/Jacob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 19:14:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13864224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylviaNightshade/pseuds/SylviaNightshade
Summary: Frank and Richard were never supposed to reunite.





	Welcome to Guam

**Author's Note:**

> I've been inactive as fuck because school but also working on this major fic that I'll post hopefully by the end of the year. Anyway, Lapidus and Richard. Been in love with this pairing since I thought of it (and was enthused to discover I'm not the only one). It's horribly real and sad and broken but like subtly. Emotions and overall vagueness you know. Enjoy.

Frank absolutely hates flying.

He always reserves a seat somewhere in the middle of the plane, preferably towards the front rather than the back if he can help it. He orders a drink ten minutes after take-off, something strong, depending on the price, and hunkers down between some sweaty fat guy and an old deaf woman who snores. It's pleasant there, because he can focus on being annoyed and grumpy rather than the fact that he’s flying to Guam on an airplane. 

He does this once a year. Yeah, it’s annoying as hell, and he’ll be the first to admit that he’s an idiot for even entering an airport. But it’s not like anyone knows what happened. It’s not like he could possibly have a phobia of flying when he was a pilot for eighteen odd years.

Frowning, he takes a sip of his Jack Daniel’s, glancing beside him. He’s at the window this time around. A teenager in glasses and a scarf sits with headphones plugged into the drop-down screen, already watching Alien or some shit. His mother sits on the aisle, also plugged into her laptop, typing away. They’re going to be quiet, Frank guesses. So he gets up to use the bathroom. 

He only spends about half the twelve hours in his seat, milling about to order more drinks and subsequently using the toilet more times than necessary. Doubtless, people start to notice how much he’s drinking, but he’s a quiet drunk. Hell, he can hold his liquor. It’s going to be a bitch when they land and he hasn’t slept this whole time, but at least he’s eaten. At this point, three years later, he’s got the routine down. 

A light ding sounds as they begin their rocky descent, and Frank grips his armrests, knuckles sheet-white by the time the plane slows to a stop. The cabin crew announce the arrival, waking everyone up, showing everyone out. Frank tips his head to the guy as he passes, half-wishing he were wearing his own uniform. 

It’s nearly seven in Hagåtña. The sun pours gently in through the window of the airport, descending slow as ever. After this, Frank thinks, he’ll definitely be getting more to drink. He’s gotten used to the business line of the immigration section, where all he has to do is flash his passport and card and he’s through. This time around, he waits half an hour to get to his luggage. Helps an old woman lift her bag, looks around for anyone else he can aid with his strong back and shaky Chamorro before leaving solo. 

Breathes in the smell of waves that hits him two steps out. Fuck, it’s beautiful here.

His hotel is close, but even so he calls a car. All the way there, he stares at the shoreline, the setting sun. Gold and blue paint on a darkening sky. It feels so real and perfect and he feels so guilty. The only thing that keeps him from jumping out is the fact that he already paid the guy.

It’s less of a hotel, more of a bungalow onslaught. Right by the ocean, but not too far away from the life of the city. There’s too much to do if he stays on the inner side, but not enough on the outskirts. Always best to have a balance of activity with relaxation. One of the many great things about the capital is the myriad of ways to get off. 

Frank barely unpacks. It’s only a one week round trip, after all. Once the last of his toiletries are placed neatly behind the bathroom cabinet, he checks his phone. There’s a list of bars a mile long that he’s already been to that are open until two in the morning... but he’s not sure he’ll be able to stay up that long. He scrolls through page after page, almost falling asleep right there and then, but when he gets to page eight, something catches his eye. 

Ichtaca Island Bar. Open twelve to twelve. It’s new. Small, remote, but still by the beach. He showers, changes, and heads out the door.

When he gets there, it’s pretty quiet. The place itself is pretty, too. All hardwood and low lights and chalkdust walls. Piano music filters in from somewhere, giving a nice accompaniment to the clinking of glasses and the waves outside. Only a few people look up when he enters. Franks nods politely, stepping towards the nearest barstool and dropping down heavily. 

“Be with you in a minute.” The man’s back is turned; Frank gives a grunt of acknowledgement. Looks around at the pictures hanging behind the counter. He seriously admires whoever created them. They’re oddly familiar, mostly paintings and photographs of the ocean, crashing waves, an island... black symbols lining the edges. Some type of Egytpian hieroglyph shit. A strange feeling settles in his gut. 

He’s almost surprised when he finds those eyes, lined like the picture frames, dark hair touched by grey, a grin crinkling his weathered brown skin. 

Almost. He may have had an inkling when he chose this bar— that there was a reason he felt drawn to it. 

He swallows. “Richard.”

Richard leans forward against the bar, staring him down in that careful way of his, smile never leaving his eyes. “Frank.” 

~<:>~

It was one night, the year they got back.

Only months after, actually. The rest of them went about their lives in L.A., Frank and Richard left in the dust. It’s not like either of them had any family to go back to, Frank with his idea of a fresh start and Richard finally free with no clue what to do. It made sense that they’d stick together.

Not quite in the way Frank expected. Although he didn’t know what to expect, really, with Richard. The guy never aged. He had every reason to be spontaneous, especially after years of playing the counselor to psychopaths. Frank didn’t blame him for wanting something for himself. Something normal. Something he could find his way back to. 

They took a boat to the capital the day before they were supposed to testify. (No way in hell were they about to board a plane.) Checked into a hotel, found the nearest bar, and got drunk off their asses. 

Not enough to black out. Frank remembers.

He remembers heading out to the beach, yelling at the waves, splashing into the water, falling back against the sand. He remembers staring up at the stars as the tide lapped near his feet, Richard confessing that he wished he could disappear. He remembers telling Richard not to disappear. He remembers kissing him into the shoreline.

He remembers going back to the hotel room, hands tugging at belt loops, the desperation of Richard’s movements, moaning his name from under the sheets. 

He remembers waking up alone.

~<:>~

“How have you been?” Richard asks, smooth and casual.

Frank wants to be flustered, but he doesn’t feel it. He shakes his head, forcing a smile. “Fine. Just trying to get by.” 

Richard grins back, gives him a once-over. “You look great for someone just trying to get by.” 

“So do you,” Frank says pointedly. “How’s the old age treating you?”

Richard laughs. “Hey, I’ve only aged, like, three years. I’m hardly a grandfather.” 

They stare, lips quirked, only a bit longer than usual. The piano in the background has shifted to guitar, lulling them along. Frank clears his throat. “So, you work in a bar now. Dream come true, huh?”

“Pretty much.” Richard spreads his hands. “I own this place.” 

Frank raises his eyebrows. “How’d you manage that?” 

“Carefully.” Richard winks. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Only if it’s on the house,” Frank admits, earning another laugh. 

“Anything for Frank Lapidus,” Richard quips, flashing his brilliant white teeth before turning to the bar behind him. 

~<:>~

He remembers finding Richard out on the balcony, quiet, watching the sunrise. He remembers sitting down beside him, instead of standing awkwardly like he normally would have done. He remembers Richard waited until they could see the white light filter through the trees to tell him all the things Jacob had done to him, spilling out of him one by one.

He remembers wondering if Richard was still drunk. He remembers listening for hours, with no recollection of how they got this close. He remembers thinking maybe near-death experiences do that to people. 

He remembers falling asleep there, waking up blurry and hungover. He remembers Richard standing over him, sun lighting his back, the saddest look on his face as he leaned in. He remembers closing his eyes, breathing in the smell.

He remembers two nights.

~<:>~

“There you go.” Richard smiles, sliding the drink across the counter. 

Frank picks it up, examining the contents with mock suspicion. “What is this?”

“A surprise,” Richard teases. At Frank’s stare, he relents. “A product of my own experimentation. Don’t worry, it’s got plenty of alcohol in it.” 

“I wasn’t worried,” Frank replies saltily, raising the glass to his lips. The liquid is sweet, chasing down his throat. He nearly coughs, surprised. “Is there wine in this?”

“Potentially,” Richard all but confirms with a knowing smirk. 

“Bastard,” Frank mutters, taking another long drink.

~<:>~

He remembers getting a call around four in the afternoon, the next day, and answering it with a clear notion of what they were going to say to him. He remembers Miles was pissed, Sawyer was gruff, Kate was merely annoyed, and all three of them wanted to know where the two of them had gone. He remembers shrugging it off, telling them it wasn’t a big deal.

He remembers Richard shuffling out of the bathroom in a towel, distracting him from the phone. He remembers the apologetic look in his eyes, the questioning tilt of his head. He remembers ending the call with the truth, that he was tired of lying— that they both were. He remembers tossing the phone onto the bed and turning to face Richard, who was finally smiling, even if it was hesitant.

He remembers how they didn’t really use words for a while, exploring their bond through glances and touches and silence. He remembers not wanting to talk, as if they had already said all they needed to trust each other. He remembers having conversations with nothing but his eyes, scraping the surface for something deeper than pleasure.

He remembers the intensity of it all.

~<:>~

“So, have you really been avoiding me all this time, or did you finally find me?” 

His question is serious, posed with a hint of amusement that Frank knows better than to ignore. He sets the glass down. “I’ve been around.”

Richard nods, folding his arms. “Here?”

“Yes. No. L.A., mostly.” Frank stirs his drink. “But I have taken a few business trips down here. For the company.” 

The words are supposed to sting, but Richard doesn’t flinch. He smiles, the fucking prick. “You joined them again.” 

There’s an edge to his voice, and Frank really doesn’t want to go down this path. “Not everyone died in that plane crash, Rich. Some people need compensation.” He huffs a laugh. “I thought it might take my mind off...” 

“What?” Richard’s steely gaze burns into him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Frank shrugs. “I quit.”

Richard doesn’t reply, watches him take another drink. As he sets the glass back down, Frank notes the tension in Richard’s jaw. Not many would notice, but Frank does. “So it was all for nothing, in the end?” 

Frank pauses, considering. “No,” he decides. “Not for nothing.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the guitar fade out. Neither of them really want to talk anymore, and by the tension in Richard’s shoulders, he’s itching to get out of here. Frank recognizes it in an instant: every tick, every line in his face, and he wishes he didn’t. It would be so much easier to walk out of here if he didn’t.

~<:>~

It only started with one night. 

Frank remembers it, slowly, steadily turning into something much bigger than either of them expected. Like everything, it wasn’t built to last. They got scared that they were no longer lost, and without that feeling, they didn’t know who to be. 

Frank left on a Saturday morning in mid-July, and he didn’t intend on coming back. 

The last of Widmore’s people found him as soon as he docked in L.A., and he begrudgingly accepted the work offered to him. It beat not having a job, vacationing with Richard in Guam and forgetting their past like two idiots who couldn’t find the time to procrastinate. 

Only it didn’t, and Frank knew it.

And he came back for no reason other than to try his luck at finding him again, even if it was subconcious. 

~<:>~

“So that’s it, then?” Richard asks, leaning closer. “That’s all it takes? You come back here, swagger through that door, and expect me to welcome you again?” 

Frank thinks of grunting, giving in, like he always used to do. He thinks of ignoring the hole in his heart and leaving to spare Richard the pain. He thinks of pretending that it would be better for both of them if he just stayed away. 

But he remembers. 

“Isn’t that what you want?” he asks, clear blue eyes open, without question.

Richard stares him down for seconds, that feel like hours, but despite his worried brow he answers, “God, yes.” 

And they smile.

**Author's Note:**

> What a mess honestly. Don't crucify me for that ending. (Why did writing this give me weird San Junipero vibes too?? Tbh??)


End file.
